


Drinking Buddies

by grimmfairy



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, drunk conversations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 08:44:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10486845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimmfairy/pseuds/grimmfairy
Summary: Five times Mick drinks Oliver's booze after Oliver gives up being the Arrow. (Post Prometheus torturing Oliver)Featuring deep and not so deep conversations, and a little drunken fooling around.





	1. 1

The last person Oliver was expecting to come knocking on his door was Mick. And technically, he didn't. Actually, Mick picked the lock on Oliver's front door (how he got past the rest of security was probably cause for concern) and let himself in. Oliver was just starting in on his bottle of scotch for the night when the arsonist made his presence known by strolling into the living room like he owned the place. He had to give Mick one thing, he was either very brave or incredibly stupid to risk an arrow. Not that he had his arrows anywhere within reach. The sight of his bow and quiver made him feel sick, in a hollow sort of way.

“What are you doing here?” Oliver asked wearily. Felicity alerted him that the Waverider had touched down in Star City last night, and Oliver had been waiting for the inveitable knock on his door since. "If you're here to ask for a favor, I'm not in the game anymore."

Mick raised an eyebrow, a decidedly unimpressed look crossing his face. Oliver was oddly comforted by it. He didn’t think he could take another round of pitying looks or not-so-subtle suggestions that he take up the mantle again.

“I’m here to drink your booze,” Mick replied simply, slumping into the comfortable sofa in Oliver’s living area.

“Did someone send you?”

“Not really,” Mick shrugged. “Heard you were feeling shitty and drinking yourself to death every night so I thought I’d get in on it.”

Oliver considered him for a moment. In all honesty, Mick’s presence wasn’t really that intrusive. The booze was already opened, and maybe it wouldn’t make him feel so pathetic if he wasn’t drinking alone. 

“Fine. But don’t burn anything.”

“Left the heat gun on the Waverider,” Mick said, holding up his empty hands. “Now pour me a drink, Richie Rich.”

Oliver handed him a crystal tumbler and filled it from the bottle he had opened. He refilled his own glass and sat down on the opposite side of the sofa. Mick downed his drink in one swallow. Oliver watched him pour another with a slight sense of amusement. 

"You know, that's a three hundred dollar bottle. Aged for twenty years."

Mick shrugged.

"I have a few bottles of 1919 moonshine back on the ship," Mick said dismissively. Amaya was sweet for swiping that bottle for him, but he was a thief by trade. He'd already stashed away a crate of the stuff when she gave it to him. "Pinched it from Al Capone's stash."

Oliver huffed a small laugh.

"And how's that?"

"Get's ya just as drunk as the fancy shit," Mick answered, knocking back his drink. "You gonna drink with me? Or are you a light weight like Stein?"

Oliver rolled his eyes, but he followed the other man's lead. It really was less lonely with Mick there. 

"As fun as drinking in silence is, maybe we should watch a movie," Oliver said after a few comfortable minutes had passed. Mick turned to look at him. "Did I mention I have a state of the art entertainment system?"

Mick glanced to where the tv was sitting, dark and unused.

"Nice. I'd steal that. You got any ninja movies?"

"I _am_ a ninja," Oliver said. He was starting to feel the buzz already, having had a few drinks before Mick arrived. "Why would I watch movies about them?"

"I've fought ninjas, and you are no ninja. Pull up Netflix, we're watching a ninja movie."


	2. Chapter 2

Mick knows fire. He knows how it moves, how it starts, how it spreads. He knows the marks it leaves behind, the scars.

That's why he knows that Oliver had a run-in with a blow torch the next time he breaks into the man's apartment. Oliver had apparently been lost in thought, standing there shirtless in front of the large windows that looked out over the city.

"Giving your neighbors a show, pretty boy?" Mick asked, causing Oliver to snap out of whatever daze he was in and turn around to face his unexpected house guest. "Helluva mark you got there. Blowtorch?"

Oliver was horribly scarred, as one would expect a masked vigilante to be Mick supposed, though many of the scars were old and clearly had not been attended to by a professional. Fresh scar tissue, bright red and angry looking, marred one of Oliver's pectorals and covered what looked like it might have been a Bratva mark at some point. 

"What are you doing here?" Oliver asked, his voice edged with defensive anger. Mick held up the two bottles he had clutched in his left hand.

"Brought some of Al Capone's moonshine. Are you in the Russian mob?"

"What? No!" Oliver looked down at the ruined tattoo on his chest. "Not...really. Not any-It doesn't matter.  _What_ are you doing here?"

Mick squinted his eyes slightly. The fresh burn wasn't the only fire-related injury that Oliver had suffered, along with multiple bullets and knives and other pointy things. None looked like they had benefited from a hospital stay. How Oliver had managed to get this far without snapping or dying was a marvel. Mick had to respect that. Not even Snart had survived such grievous injuries. 

"Everyone else was visiting their friends, and you're the only person I like in this godforsaken city."

"Mick...one night of scotch and bad movies doesn't make us friends," Oliver said, his body losing some of its tense energy as he rubbed his face with his hand. Mick shrugged.

"You got something better to do?" Mick asked pointedly, already knowing the answer. Felicity had all but threatened the Legends with bodily harm if they tried to force Oliver back into the hood before he was ready. 

"That's not the point."

"Look, the way I see it, you got two choices. You either drink _with_ me," Mick said, pausing for dramatic effect. "Or, you sulk and I drink alone. On your couch."

Oliver glared at him for a moment before sighing.

"I could _make_ you leave, you know."

Mick snorted, and walked into the living area to sit on the couch again.

"Whatever you say," Mick said dismissively. "Put your shirt back on."

Oliver watched with growing defeat. Mick seemed to be settled in for the night, though it was a bit early for drinking. 

"Do you want to order some food? I can't drink moonshine on an empty stomach."

"If you're buying," Mick said. "I brought the booze this time."

"You stole it."

"Of course I stole it."

* * *

"How can you drink this every night?" Oliver asked after he stopped coughing. "It's terrible!"

"You should have tried the crap in the wild west," Mick said as he refilled their glasses and put the empty bottle aside. "And you don't seem to be having any trouble."

"I used to drink with Sara."

"Now there's a woman that can handle her liquor," Mick said. Oliver looked at him expectantly. "Oh yeah, drank me under the table then joined a barfight while I was passed out."

"Sounds about right," Oliver muttered as he lifted his drink and downed it. He coughed again, but if was starting to go down a lot smoother. Mick reached for another slice of pizza and laughed at something that happened on screen. 

"Can you do that?" Mick asked, pointing at the ninja doing an impossible stunt. Oliver slapped Mick's hand down.

"No one can do that."

"I bet Sara can."

"I will have you know that I can beat Sara in a fight," Oliver said, his words just barely slurred. Mick snorted, pleasantly drunk.

"That's not how _she_ tells it." Mick snickered at the affronted look on Oliver's face. "Tell me, what are you going to do about the guy that knocked you out of the game?"

Oliver became solemn, and knocked back his shot. 

"I've revealed his true face to the world," Oliver said. "It's a start."

"So was putting your little band of merry men back together," Mick pointed out. "Though I guess that makes you Robin Hood."

"Why do people insist on calling me Robin Hood?" Oliver asked, the awkward tension bleeding out of the room. "I don't live in the forest or rob from the rich!"

"You wear a green hood and you go after rich corrupt assholes every other night. You're Robin Hood," Mick said firmly. Oliver rolled his eyes. 

"Don't call them the Merry Men around Felicity, she'll never let it go," Oliver said. "I don't need a new team nick name, I just started to like 'Team Arrow'."

"Too late."


End file.
